Nelson Demille - Gold Coast, Part III

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CHAPTER 22 Friday morning dawned bright and clear. Susan was up and out riding before I was even dressed. She had finished the painting next door, and we were to have an unveiling at the Bellarosas' as soon as Anna found the right place for the painting, and Susan found an appropriate frame. I couldn't wait. I was having my third cup of coffee, trying to decide what to do with the day, when the phone rang. I answered it in the kitchen, and it was Frank Bellarosa. "Whaddaya up to?" he asked. "Seven." "What?" "I'm up to seven. What are you up to?" "Hey, I gotta ask you something. Where's the beach around here?" "There are a hundred miles of beaches around here. Which one did you want?" "There's that place at the end of the road here. The sign says no trespassing. That mean me?" "That's Fox Point. It's private property, but everyone on Grace Lane uses the beach. No one lives there anymore, but we have a covenant with the owners." "A what?" "A deal. You can use the beach." "Good, 'cause I was down there the other day. I didn't want to be trespassing." "No, you don't want to do that." Was this guy kidding or what? I added, "It's a misdemeanour." "Yeah. We got a thing in the old neighbourhoods, you know? You don't shit where you live, you don't spit on the sidewalk. You go to Little Italy, for instance, you behave." "Except for the restaurant rubouts." "That's different. Hey, take a walk with me down there." "Little Italy?" "No. Fox Place." "Fox Point." "Yeah. I'll meet you at my fence." "Gatehouse?" "Yeah. Fifteen, twenty minutes. Show me this place." I assumed he wanted to discuss something and didn't want to do it on the telephone. In our few phone conversations, there was never anything said that would even suggest that I might be his attorney. I think he wanted to spring this on Ferragamo and the New York press as a little surprise at some point. "Okay?" he asked. "Okay." I hung up, finished my coffee, put on jeans and Docksides, and made sure twenty minutes passed before I began the ten-minute walk to Alhambra's gates. But was the son of a bitch pacing impatiently for me? No. I went to the gatehouse and banged on the door. Anthony Gorilla opened up. "Yeah?" I could see directly into the small living room, not unlike the Allards' little place, the main difference being that sitting around the room was another gorilla whom I supposed was Vinnie and two incredibly sluttish-looking women who might be Lee and Delia. The two sluts and the gorilla seemed to be smirking at me, or perhaps it was my imagination. Anthony repeated his greeting. "Yeah?" I turned my attention back to Anthony and said, "What the hell do you think I'm here for? If I'm expected, you say, 'Good morning, Mr Sutter. Mr Bellarosa is expecting you.' You do not say 'yeah?' Capisce?" Before Anthony could make his apologies or do something else, don Bellarosa himself appeared at the door and said something to Anthony in Italian, then stepped outside and led me away by the arm. Bellarosa was wearing his standard uniform of blazer, turtleneck, and slacks. The colours this time were brown, white, and beige, respectively. I saw, too, as we walked, that he had acquired a pair of good Docksides, and on his left wrist was a black Porsche watch, very sporty at about two thousand bucks. The man was almost getting it, but I didn't know how to bring up the subject of his nylon stretch socks.